


On the Side

by Doublematch, MilesHibernus



Series: Warcraft Omens [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, World of Warcraft
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26012716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doublematch/pseuds/Doublematch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilesHibernus/pseuds/MilesHibernus
Summary: A collection of short pieces related toHearthstone
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Warcraft Omens [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1888567
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	On the Side

**Author's Note:**

> CW: The first sentence of the second paragraph contains an unfulfilled threat of eye injury.

Ezra couldn’t see.

He supposed he ought to be grateful; the Forsaken had suggested putting out his eyes entirely, but the orc had argued that they didn’t want to do something so irreversible and they’d blindfolded him instead. He suspected the discussion had been put on, for the sake of terrifying him, but that suspicion didn’t keep it from _working_. Though he understood that even his temporary blindness was a tactic, that not knowing what was coming made everything that much more frightening, understanding didn’t help and he wondered absurdly if it were possible to tire out one’s ears attempting to pick out any tiny sound that might offer warning.

They didn’t make any sound unless they wanted to, but he couldn’t stop trying.

He couldn’t stop trying to detect them; he couldn’t stop crying; he couldn’t stop working his hands uselessly in their bonds. Once, early on, he’d managed to get a hand free, but his captors weren’t fools and had retied him with the knots out of his reach, and all his struggling accomplished was rubbing his wrists raw against the coarse rope.

Something touched him, a hand on the side of his neck; gentle, but he flinched violently away.

“Priest.”

He knew they wanted him to beg, to plead for the pain to stop, that it entertained them, and he hated to give them the satisfaction but he couldn’t help it, he _couldn’t_ , all he wanted was for it to _stop—_

“ _Ezra_ ,” said Crowley’s voice; it punctured the dream and Ezra’s eyes flew open.

The gentle lamplight showed him a wall, worked stone rather than a natural cavern, and a ceiling, and Crowley’s face (anxious and trying not to let it show), and Ezra lay still for only a moment before he threw himself into Crowley’s arms. Under normal circumstances he might have found the startled _oof_ funny; as it was he barely noticed. He buried his face in the side of Crowley’s neck.

“It was just a dream,” said Crowley softly. He ran one hand into the sweat-damp curls at Ezra’s nape and Ezra clutched at his shirt.

“I didn’t even know their names,” he said miserably. “I didn’t find out until after. That made it worse, why did it make it worse?”

“Doesn’t matter why, it just did.” There was a brief, thoughtful pause. “I had no idea what I was getting into, sneaking up on you. I’m damned lucky your shadows didn’t smite me where I stood.”

“They would never,” Ezra protested.

“Then they’d be falling down on the job.”

Ezra wanted to take the distraction Crowley offered and fall into the familiar pleasure of banter, but when he opened his mouth what emerged was, “I’ll never be able to forget. Will I?”

He felt Crowley’s sigh. “No. But I’ll be here when you remember.”

* * *

Crowley woke to darkness and silence. He tried to reach over to the other side of the bed, but his hand was brought up short by something tight around his wrist, and he thought, _I should have known_.

What were the odds, after all, that Ezra had survived Hastur’s deathtrap, that he’d managed to persuade the Them to mount a rescue attempt, that it had _succeeded_?

He rolled onto his side to curl around his shackled wrist and wondered if he could force himself back into the fantasy. He had no obligations, no responsibilities he’d be neglecting; they weren’t even going to let any of his friends see him before he was executed. The real world had nothing he needed and he’d lose nothing by embracing the delusion.

He could hear a horrible thin whine, rising and falling with his breath— _Oh_ , he thought, _that’s me_. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered.

Time passed. Crowley neither knew nor cared how much. When the silence was broken by the sound of the door opening, he thought distantly that he should probably be afraid; it was either Hastur again or they’d finally come to take him to his death.

“Oh, oh no,” said Ezra’s voice. Crowley curled tighter and wished he had something to thank for bringing back the dream. Footsteps hurried across the floor and the mattress (mattress?) dipped with the weight of another body. Ezra’s hand on his shoulder felt so real, warm and solid. “Crowley, love, are you awake?”

“Yes.” He had to force the word past the constriction in his throat.

Ezra snapped and the light came up a bit, revealing Ezra’s room in the garrison. “Come here, my sun.”

Crowley tried, but the manacle stopped him and he bit back a moan. “Oh, you’re all tangled, let me,” said Ezra. He leant over and—unwound the loop of the sheet that had gotten wrapped around Crowley’s wrist as he slept. “Now come here.”

Crowley sat up and twisted so he could fold Ezra into his arms. Ezra’s went around him in return. “This is real,” Ezra murmured into his hair. “You’re not there anymore.”

Crowley drew a breath that shuddered. “Promise me,” he said, hearing his voice crack.

“I promise. This is real and I’m here and we’re both quite alright.”

“Oh, priest,” said Crowley helplessly. He didn’t know what he was trying to say.

“I’m here,” Ezra repeated. “We’re both here.” Crowley nodded and tried not to shake.

It was a long time before he slept again, but at least he had no dreams.

* * *


End file.
